Phobia KDP (5 page)

Her plain face was almost hidden by the curly brown hair that fell across her cheek, nearly concealing the twitch of her eye. She pressed a thin finger against her brow, as if trying to stop the tremor, and continued to speak.

“According to statistics, I have a one in four chance of being the victim of a violent crime. That’s a likelihood of twenty-five percent. If someone told you that you had a twenty-five percent chance of being hit by a bus today, would you go outside?”

He’d heard these statistics from her in the past, and he wondered if Bethany Barker spent all of her spare time researching crime reports. But Peter Lochhead was a trained psychologist with a doctorate degree from the University of Maryland, so he simply nodded. He noticed a napkin, wrinkled and stained with the remains of his lunch, on the floor.
Damn
, he thought.
It must have fallen off the desk
.

He tried to listen to Bethany, but found his eyes inexplicably drawn to the napkin. Boredom had led him to find another amusement, even if it was a crumpled piece of trash. He forced himself to hear her words.

“I don’t know anyone who’s been the victim of a crime. None of my friends and family members have ever been raped, mugged, or attacked. That makes it all the more likely that I am the one who will be the victim. I mean, the odds are against me. It’s very possible I’ll be raped someday.”

Lochhead knew that pointing out her faulty logic was an exercise in futility. Instead, he turned a page on his yellow legal pad and started a grocery list.

Bethany Barker reminded him of a girl he knew in college, a mousy little bookworm with few friends and no boyfriends. He’d watched the girl around campus for a while, noticing that she didn’t talk or socialize or giggle with the other students. Although he’d always been lucky in love, something had drawn him to that thin, shy girl. So he asked her on a date. He took her to a sushi restaurant for lunch, where they both drank too much beer. Later, back in his dorm room, they polished off a bottle of wine. Both of them had been drunk. Very drunk. Maybe she’d said “no” and maybe she hadn’t. He couldn’t really remember. But he knew she never spoke to him again, not even when they had a Sociology class together the next semester.

Bethany reminded him of that girl. And listening to her talk about rape made him feel a little bit guilty and a little bit excited. Rather than deal with his own emotions, Lochhead chose to ignore Bethany as much as possible. As a therapist, he was aware that his behavior was classic avoidance. But he tried not to face that fact, either.
Physician
, he thought wryly,
heal thyself
.

Bethany continued to speak, unaware that her psychologist was wrapped up in his own mental therapy. “I know that, statistically, the odds are greatest I’ll be attacked by someone I know. A boyfriend or a friend. But that doesn’t worry me. I don’t socialize with that type of person. No, it’s the stranger that worries me. The guy hiding in my bushes or the one waiting in my house when I get home from work. He’s the one who’s likely to be horrible. He’ll tie me up and do unimaginable things to me.”

Lochhead realized that Bethany was waiting for a response. “What would make you feel safe?” he asked. It was the same question he always asked during her sessions. Standard and boring.

“I don’t know. Maybe I need to do everything possible to protect myself. Maybe I need to prepare for every possible scenario.”

“That’s impossible,” he said.

“I can try, can’t I?”

Lochhead sighed inwardly and glanced at the clock. Only twenty minutes left in her session.

Everything about Sarah Coyle was thin except the thick plastic lenses of her glasses. Her voluminous polyester blouse and plain black pants did not camouflage her skinny wrists and ankles, nor did they hide her sharp collar bones. Even her pale hair—so blond it was almost translucent—seemed anemic. Herne felt an almost overwhelming urge to offer her a steak dinner.

He guessed Sarah was in her twenties. She pressed her lips into a tight line and he noticed she wore no lipstick. She shook her head and crossed her arms over her flat chest.

“Look, Miss Coyle,” Saxon said with a sigh. “This is official police business. We only need a few minutes of Dr. Lochhead’s time.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Sarah said, her voice cool and firm. “His time is valuable. We schedule patients very tightly. If you need to speak with him, you’ll have to make an appointment.”

“He eats lunch, doesn’t he? It’s almost lunchtime. Perhaps you can persuade him to give us just a few minutes of his time while he’s eating.”

The receptionist’s steely glare darted between Saxon and Herne.

“He does eat lunch,” Sarah admitted. “But he guards that time very closely. I’m not sure he’d want to spend it with two police officers.”

The phone rang and she cut off Saxon’s next words with a wave of her hand, picking up the receiver. Herne turned and spoke softly in Saxon’s ear, “If she doesn’t acquiesce soon, we’ll move on to threats.”

Saxon whispered, “Why are we bothering with her? Let’s just barge in.”

Herne shook his head and Saxon crossed her arms, eyeing him balefully. “What a waste of time,” she sneered.

Herne turned his back to her, tired of playing the foil for her tough cop attitude. He glanced around the office, decorated in shades of pink and beige. Herne guessed the color scheme was designed to soothe and calm irritable patients. It was a psychological trick that had been tested in prisons. Wardens had painted walls pink, ordered Pepto-Bismol colored jumpsuits, and even tried dyeing food the color of bubble gum. But the pink prisons had actually irritated the convicts, leading to more riots and greater violence.

Herne thought it likely that Lochhead’s décor produced similar results.

Sarah spoke into the telephone, her jagged fingernails nervously tapping on her desk. “I don’t have time right now. I know you want me to do it. I’m sorry. I am. It’s just there’s someone here, and it’s almost lunch. I have to go and get…”

She glanced at Herne and Saxon. Covering the receiver with her hand, she nodded to Herne. “If you can run to The Sandwich Station and pick up Peter’s lunch, I’ll make sure he gives you fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll do it,” Herne said.

“Just get him the sandwich of the day,” Sarah instructed. “And a bottle of iced tea.”

Herne and Saxon left the therapist’s office and walked the single flight down to the first floor. Their footsteps echoed in the stairway, sounding both heavy and hollow. Herne thought the details of the old building outweighed the inconveniences of its old-fashioned design. The decorative archways and scrolled chair rails reminded him of history, a time when craftsmen found pride in their work and pleasure in their trade. The air smelled musty, and the walls and trim were covered in a thin layer of dust that no cleaning service had been able to remove. Like the other professional buildings in Hurricane, this one was nothing more than an old house that had been converted to office spaces. The only tenants were Lochhead, a dentist, an accountant, a private investigator, and The Sandwich Station.

Modern stainless steel racks and clear glass cases held the wares of the lunch shop. Long before Woo opened his Chinese restaurant and Sal opened his pizzeria, a savvy city dweller visited the town on business and became frustrated at the long wait for a midday meal at Hurricane’s diners. The foresighted entrepreneur opened The Sandwich Station, hired a manager, and now enjoyed a healthy income from the business.

As they opened the door of the small store, Herne noticed the pungent odor of bleu cheese. The clerk grinned at them as they entered. His blue eyes sparkled behind round glasses, and Herne saw him assess Saxon’s figure. He was surprised to find himself possessive of the lieutenant’s body in a non-sexual way. Then he shook his head and grinned to himself.
I want to protect my female partner from harm,
he thought to himself,
just like every other chauvinistic cop.

“What’s the sandwich of the day?” she asked.

“Thin sliced roast beef with marinated mushrooms, fresh avocado, arugula, and baby Swiss cheese between two slices of garlic and herb foccocia.”

It was an unusual menu item for a town where most of the residents believed iceberg lettuce and some carrot shavings were the makings of a good salad. Herne raised an eyebrow at the clerk. “Sounds like quite a sandwich.”

The clerk shrugged his lean shoulders. “Take a look around. There’s not a lot for me to do here except make food.”

“We’ll take one of those sandwiches,” Herne said, as he turned to fetch a bottle of iced tea from the cooler.

“Really?” A pleased smile crossed the clerk’s face, displaying even, white teeth. “Wonderful! I don’t get many orders for it.”

The clerk assembled the sandwich with professional speed. Herne paid for the food with cash, not bothering to ask for a receipt.

As they climbed the stairs to return to Lochhead’s office, Herne and Saxon passed a mousy brunette dressed in a pale pink blouse. He noticed her—since investigating this case his senses had almost automatically sharpened, and now he was noticing everyone—and she reminded him of the shy girl in class, the one who always sat in the back of the room and never raised her hand. She looked at him closely before glancing at Saxon, and in a moment they had passed each other and she was gone from his mind.

Back upstairs, Sarah was still on the phone. When Herne and Saxon entered the waiting room, she simply waved them toward Lochhead’s door. The therapist looked up in surprise when they entered.

“You don’t look like typical sandwich delivery people,” he said.

Unlike the waiting room, Lochhead’s inner office reminded Herne of a yacht club. The desk was a rich mahogany and the chairs were reminiscent of the captain’s seat on a boat. Oil paintings of seascapes decorated the walls, and a mirror shaped like a ship’s porthole hung behind Lochhead’s desk. The room was designed to convey masculinity. To Herne it felt false, like a mask worn by a disfigured man. It was the décor of a psychologist who cared more about his own image than the comfort of his patients.

Lochhead leaned back in his chair and squinted at the badge on Saxon’s chest, his eyes lingering on her breasts for a moment longer than necessary. Again, Herne felt the urge to protect Saxon, but he swallowed down the emotion.

Lochhead ran his fingers through his thick black hair and reached for the sandwich she held. “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Saxon said as she handed him his lunch.

“Really?” Lochhead smiled, flashing straight white teeth. His self-assurance reminded Herne of smarmy Ivy League graduates, the type that spend their college summer sailing on “The Cape.” Lochhead unwrapped the wax paper and bit into his sandwich while Herne and Saxon stood in silence. After swallowing his bite and gulping some iced tea, he glanced at them.

“So are you going to introduce yourselves?” he asked.

“I’m Lieutenant Saxon with the Hurricane Police Department and this is Artemis Herne, a police consultant,” Saxon said.

“I hope this isn’t about my unpaid parking tickets,” Lochhead said. Herne’s palm itched as he resisted the urge to slap the smirk off Lochhead’s face.

“It’s about a patient of yours. Amanda Todd.” Saxon’s eyes were narrow slits of impatience. Herne sensed that she, too, was annoyed by Lochhead’s slick persona.

Lochhead reached for his sandwich again. “Amanda Todd,” he murmured.

“She was found murdered in her home Saturday morning,” Herne said.

“Yes, I heard it on the news.” Lochhead raised an eyebrow. “How terrible.”

“She was a patient of yours, wasn’t she, Mr. Lochhead?” Saxon asked.

“Dr. Lochhead,” he corrected. “I have a Ph.D. And I can’t share that information with you.”

Saxon exhaled noisily. She started to speak, but Herne interrupted.

“You don’t seem very surprised by her death,” Herne said.

Lochhead shrugged. “I’m a psychologist, Mr. Herne. I hear every intimacy of my patients’ lives. People tell me about their childhood bedwetting, about their fears and their dreams. They even tell me the most private details of their sexual activity. It takes a great deal to surprise me.”

“What type of patients do you treat?” Herne asked.

“I’m the only therapist in Hurricane,” Lochhead said, “so I see all kinds of things. These days, anxiety and depression are favorites among the women. Addictions are common among men.” He met Herne’s gaze. Herne had the uncomfortable feeling that the psychologist was trying to access his inner mind. He kept his face neutral, but he felt a small twitch in his upper lip.
Betrayed by my own body,
Herne thought.

“Yes, addiction is common among men,” Lochhead repeated.

“Hurricane is a small town. I’m surprised you find many patients here,” Herne said. He felt Saxon shift her feet impatiently.
She’s young and inexperienced
, he thought.
She hasn’t yet learned that getting information in a homicide requires more than a simple question and answer session.

“Well, although I do see an assortment of problems, I specialize in one particular area,” Lochhead said.